


Pianist of the Night

by Gryffindorian2014



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Music, Angst and Porn, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Love, POV Third Person Omniscient, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unrequited Love, pianist Rabastan Lestrange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 04:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13023585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryffindorian2014/pseuds/Gryffindorian2014
Summary: When you love an artist, sometimes you feel as if you are the only one in love. After the initial excitement of a new romance wears off, it quickly becomes a one-sided affair. When you love an artist, they hold all that controls you in the palm of their hands or at the ends of their fingers. You merely wait, holding your breath, hoping today that they focus, if not for just a moment, on you before turning away.





	Pianist of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is written for entertainment purposes only and no monetary gain is being made off it. Any violation of trademark and copyright infringement is purely coincidental and unintentional. The rights belong to its respective owner(s) and nothing substantial is being gained from this venture.
> 
> Warnings: Graphic Smut. Alternate Universe (Muggle world).
> 
> Timeline: 2001-2004, 2004-2011.
> 
> Rabastan Lestrange is 17 years older than our favourite Gryffindor gal. I sort of have a thing for older men :>

* * *

When you love an artist, sometimes you feel as if you are the only one in love. After the initial excitement of a new romance wears off, it quickly becomes a one-sided affair.

The love they have for their art wells up inside of them expands, taking over their hearts and souls and nothing else can remain. That is what makes them what they are, extraordinary, with gifts that only a higher power can hand out.

Then again, there are times when the love they have is only for you. Those moments are overwhelmingly beautiful and beyond earthly imagination. When an artist loves, he loves so profoundly that they merely need touch you or simply look at you in such a way that is so distinctively their own that you catch fire from the spark of need they create within you. You feel like you are floating among the stars, so close that you can almost reach out and touch them, yet so far.

But, mostly, when an artist is being an artist, an empty coldness sweeps through you that is so bitingly bitter that even the brightest of fires, offers no warmth. You feel destitute, all alone—even amongst an ocean of people.

When you love an artist, they hold all that controls you in the palm of their hands or attached to strings tied at the ends of their fingers. And you become a puppetry of emotions that the rational part of you is an audience to. You merely wait, holding your breath, hoping today that they focus, if not for long then for just a moment on you, before turning away.

No one knew this more than Hermione. She was tired of holding her breath. Sometimes it caused her to forget how to breathe alone. She was tired of hoping. It only caused her to lose faith in herself. But she could never deny that she loved him and would most likely never love someone else so deeply for as long as she lived.

She knew she had to leave, force herself to go away and deny the deeply ingrained urge to be with him. He had become her addiction.

Hermione knew that he had already come to the realization of what she was about to do. It was his sixth sense, to know her better than she knew herself. She could tell in the masked sadness of his eyes, by the extra love he attempted to lavish on her as well as his increased physical presence. Even his touch was a plea. But, she had to do this. She was dying inside. She was becoming nothing but him. When he left her, not just in body or mind, but in soul—even for a moment, she became nothing. And, she had done this willingly, without thinking, only loving.

What else do you have to give a man after you have given your all and he is _still_ not yours?

This is what she thought when she opened her eyes and reached out her arm. His space in their bed was cold and empty. Hermione could hear his fingers gracing the keys, filling the air with the most poignant notes in the world. This was what the world craved, rewarded and cried for in his presence. Creativity, stress or sadness were the only things that would not allow him to go to sleep. She knew which it was and it pulled at her heart.

Naked, she followed the sounds to find him. In the low light of a night with a full moon, he sat at the piano in his own nakedness. He played with his eyes closed, his soul bare, head slightly tilted to the side as if feeling every chord.

It reminded Hermione of how he had tortured her the first time they had made love. She had been straddling his lap at this very piano. He had entered her so slowly, at first watching her face closely as he slipped in. Then he had closed his eyes and tilted his head while filling her as if he wanted to experience every second of his descent toward her very core. Hermione had been caught between the wonderful sensation that she felt and envy for what he must have been feeling. She had never actually watched someone make love to her. She had looked into the faces of her lovers, even watched their bodies join, but never truly watched someone make love to her.

She now walked slowly to where he sat, savouring everything that this image, so beautiful and perfect in the moonlight and its shadows offered.

He opened his eyes and looked at her without moving his head. His lips formed a sad smile, his trademark, and his deep blue eyes, so full of emotion, summoned her.

With his encouragement, Hermione placed herself directly in front of him. This was a well-practised movement of her lithe body. Of course, he removed his hands from the keys as she slid in place, the silence representing a shift in his focus. Her behind hit the keys and he gave her a full smile at the awful shock of sound. He leaned his forehead against her, letting each hand spread out over a full breast, to feel her as only he could. She ran her hands through his over his long dark waves, which were in need of a cut. This was how she soothed him, drew him away. This was a moment of sweetness before he stood, lifting her off the keys, on top of the piano and then spread her legs wide. He sat down and played a short sultry tune as he looked into the bare display between her legs. He had once told her that she had the most beautiful pussy he had ever seen.

"So well proportioned," he had teased.

When the tune was over, he bent forward and ran his hands up her legs. He began to kiss and trail small bites up the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Each bite he soothed with the flat of his tongue.

"Ral..." Hermione sighed.

When he traced circles around her clitoris with the tip of his tongue, every muscle in her body relaxed and all she could feel was where his tongue touched her. Her already swollen clitoris ached from his teasing. Hermione moaned when he swirled his tongue around her entrance and then dipped it in as far as it would go. Her pussy grabbed at it hungrily. His two fingers replaced it, going further down her tunnel but still just a tease of what was to come.

With his drenched fingers working their way in and out of her, he sucked on her clitoris, kissing the base of the ultra-sensitive bundle of nerves with his lips. Hermione could have sworn that her clitoris and her labia had grown from the way he pulled at them with his mouth. He knew just how to use his mouth in contrast to the feeling of him flicking her little, but firm, dark-pink nub. She was already trembling uncontrollably from his sucking, licking, flicking and finger fucking that when he curled his fingers and hit that special spot, she let out a small cry and came all over them. He gave her one last firm lick before rising and feeding her the two digits that had just brought her so much pleasure. She sucked off her own sweetness.

His cock was hard as steel and reaching out to her; he managed to pull her forward. This was something they had perfected, the way he managed to hold her as she continued to slowly move forward. She reached one hand between them to guide him and helped support some of her weight with other. His cock began to stretch her open as she slid on top of it. He let out a moan that let her know just how much her body pleased him.

Hermione wrapped her arms and legs around him as he took her full weight on and carried her back to the bed. All this they did without disturbing a key. And, his hard cock never left her. When her back hit the mattress, he drove in deeply, pausing for just a minute before he began the movements that drew him out and back into her. Hermione could only kiss him, letting her tongue mix with his, and spread her hands across his back, letting them feel the movement of muscles as he pounded urgently into her. Her legs were splayed as wide as she could get them. This was her heaven, her escape. The sounds that they made together were her music. He made love to her like no one else could. Hermione knew that tonight he wanted her to just relax and enjoy the things that he had to offer.

"Yes," she whispered in his ear, grabbing a hand full of his hair, "just like that...It feels so good."

He withdrew only to latch on to one of her breasts with his mouth and let his hand squeeze the other after first pinching the nipple. Her breasts were always so sensitive to his touch. They seemed to rise up, get firmer in his hands. Her nipples swelled and hardened at just the thought of him touching them. They felt as if they would burst and feed him. He acted as if they would and he was hungry for it. The way he sucked and pulled at them drove her round the bend, her eyes rolled back. He was as skilled in the use of his teeth on them as he was when he played with her pussy. He took his time with one and then the other. Hermione arched her back to press more of her flesh into his hot cavern.

"You like that don't you?" he said into the needy flesh.

"Yes," she moaned in response, bringing her hands to thread into his hair and pulling to ease the almost unbearable exquisiteness of what she was feeling.

He rose up on his knees, wrapping his hands around her thighs and pulling positioning them to wrap around his waist. This raised her arse up and opened her to him more. He licked his finger before smoothing it over her clit. There had been no need; she was so wet it literally leaked out of her. He pumped his finger inside of her a few times. Then, he put his finger back up to his lips and sucked it in. Closing his eyes and shaking his head, as if it were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

"I need you inside of me," she whined.

With that, he grabbed her by the hips and shoved himself into her. Hermione cried out in pleasure, almost coming then. He pushed and pulled at her as he rose up slightly and pumped his hips. Hermione's arms were spread wide as her fingers dug desperately into the skin of his back, her blunt nails leaving marks.

"You love this don't you," Rabastan breathed, his breath hot and moist against the shell of her ear.

"I do," she yelled out, unable to control herself.

With another few powerful thrusts, she came undone, pleasure hitting her in waves. Her legs shook and her eyes rolled back before she squeezed them shut.

"Look at me."

She finally did- her molten pools of brown now a dark chocolate and held his startlingly deep blue ones, panting as if she had run a marathon.

He started to move inside her again, laying her back on the sheets. This time grounding into her in small circles with his hips. He started slow, but his movements quickly sped up. She saw his body tighten and flex. She knew that it was at this point he would pull completely out and let his cum squirt out, reaching her breasts and dripping down her torso. Then he would lick what hit her breast off before suckling at her nipples again. But, this time he did not pull out. Instead, he rammed himself into her and stopped. She felt his cock expand and then cum shoot out inside of her, the thick, hot liquid bathed her on the inside. The sensation made her body shudder in response and she came again by just the feel of it.

The look on his face was so full of satisfaction. His skin glistened and he seemed to glow, like a beautiful white angel, hair and eyes wild. After a slight recovery, he lowered her legs and climbed up her body. His lips left a trail of kisses as he moved to finally rest on hers. Their kiss was long and sweet.

He lay down beside her and pulled her into him. Hermione rested her head on his chest.

"I love you, Ral," she said, letting her fingers play in the fine sprinkling of hairs there.

"Hmm," he hummed, after a while, into her hair before kissing her on the head.

They lay for a moment, breathing together as their hearts began to calm. Neither one slept.

* * *

 

The next morning, Hermione found herself pressed underneath him, the soreness and the ache in her muscles the only reminder of what they had been at throughout the night. She tried to clear her mind of him as her body still pulsated with the pleasure he had brought. She tried to recall things that would keep her resolve from changing.

She thought about the performance that almost did not happen. It was the night before he was to go on a tour that would start here, in London. He was to give one televised performance in New York before boarding a flight that would separate them for quite some time. They had been dating for a short while. He had completely swept her off her feet. She had already known then that she loved him.

Everything changed after that night. Prior to that, they had spent an uninterrupted week with one another. Hermione had never seen him for so long at one time. He had told her that he wanted to give her something to remember him by and how he hoped that she would wait for him.

She now thought of his older brother Rodolphus, who was more than just a manager and the one that handled everything in his life that was not music. He had ignored Hermione at first, angering his younger sibling by purposely neglecting to include Hermione when he was in town or close enough that she could be brought to him. Hermione had been fine with that, the lights and all the people were really not her style. When he had time, he would come to her. That was all until that day in New York happened.

The morning of the performance, he had attempted to call Hermione and she had not answered. Hermione had actually seen the call but did not want to speak to him. It would only make her sadder about his leaving.

Somehow, he sensed that she was avoiding him. He immediately refused to perform at the event. He also made it clear that he would not be leaving the hotel to go anywhere until Hermione was by his side. As the day proceeded, Rodolphus finally realized that it was not a minor temper tantrum. He refused to practice with the accompanying orchestra and locked himself in his hotel suite. He would not even let her enter. The result, his older brother had to move heaven and earth to get Hermione there.

When Hermione arrived, she was rushed to his room. He was not the raging, temperamental artist she was led to believe. He calmly placed his forehead to hers and told her he loved her for the very first time. He kissed her deeply before raising her skirt and ripping her panties off. That was the first time she had seen a different part of him.

Hermione could truly say for the first time, that they did not make love but truly fucked. His usual gentleness was discarded and his ministrations had been instinctual and animalistic.

He had her beneath him, bent over the grand piano that dominated the room and spread her legs with his own as she used her hands to brace herself. He quickly swiped his hands beneath her, causing her to press the side of her face to the cool wood of the lidded piano. She had been so wet that she was dripping even before he started to plunge roughly into her. This new side of him was as stimulating, if not more, than their usual sex.

He pounded into her, lifting her off her feet. He bit at the back of her neck and pulled on her hair. His guttural growl of "Fuck" filled the room, as did the sound of their flesh meeting each time the head of his cock hit the face of her cervix.

She cried out his name and called on God as the powerful force of her orgasm shook her. His hot seed hit her back, in what seemed like endless streams. She truly believed that she had produced an equal amount of her own juices, her pleasure was so complete. He had then lowered himself and did something he had never done before up until that point. After biting the flesh of her curved arse and sucking on the spot so hard that Hermione was sure it would leave a bruise, he spread her cheeks and began to lick her puckered hole and go lower to taste her seeping pussy. When he rose up, turning her around roughly and kissed her-feeding her back her own juices.

This is how he made love to her before every performance as if she were his good luck charm. She found herself being pulled into empty dressing rooms or abandoned closets and areas of the theatre. Once, they had fucked in the woman's restroom minutes before he was to be on stage and she watched him perform with his essence staining the back of her dress.

That night in Paris, the show was delayed until he arrived. He kissed Hermione before stepping out to meet the roaring applause of his patient audience. His older brother stood beside her, watching Hermione instead of him. After the show, when her arms were fixed across her chest and one of his arms was wrapped around her waist, marking his possession.

"So you are The One." Rodolphus's words were steeped in sarcasm.

"Excuse me," Hermione said, slightly offended.

His older brother had walked away with a laugh.

Weeks later Rodolphus, after warming up to Hermione just a little and realizing that Hermione was not some transitional fling, smiled, took Hermione's hand and whispered in her ear.

"You love him don't you?"

Hermione nodded her head watching her lover mesmerizing the Swiss audience.

"Poor child," he'd said, shaking his head. "He will never be the type of man that lives a normal life. He will never give you a family or let you walk freely within that mind of his. He can't help it. He'll only break your heart, leaving you too ruined by his love to take a chance on giving yours to anyone else."

"Does he do this often," Hermione asked with a tear threatening to fall, "keep a woman like this?"

"He never lets them make it this far honey."

Hermione remembered it like yesterday. Oh, how she had ignored all the warnings.

The woman in Prague with all the jewellery falling from her body was a major warning. The way she had cried, calling out his name as he ignored her, and walked away. He then came up to Hermione and kissed her on the cheek.

Hermione had watched the two of them. The woman was arguing in another language with her finger in his face, then crying and pleading. He seemed to say something to her, but it only made her cries worse. When he noticed Hermione, he simply said something brief and left the woman standing there. Only later, Hermione discovered that the woman had been a spurned lover—the one he used to stay with, in Europe.

Hermione had lost her job over running to be by his side that night in New York, only to have him pretty much ignore her during the days that followed. He did not even seem to realize that unlike him, she needed to be fed.

Hermione was handled by his older brother as if she was just another task that needed to be completed for him to stay happy. When Hermione complained about being left alone during the day Rodolphus arranged for her to sightsee, without him. His older brother had dresses delivered for special events. The man even left her an itinerary every morning, so that Hermione would know where she was supposed to be and when. If by chance he turned around or looked for her, Hermione was supposed to be there.

Those days had been miserable and often repeated.

But at night, he would realize she was there. Or, they would be at some event or dinner party and he would watch her. His eyes always told her what his silence did not. Those were the times he would lavish her with his attention and lead her by the hand to wherever they would lie in each other's arms. He would tell her how beautiful she looked. He would make endless love to her. Sometimes he gave her minutes, sometimes hours and when the moon rose in the night sky just right, she was gifted with days.

A little over two years had drifted by.

Were those days still worth it?

* * *

 

Late that afternoon, he stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over him. He posted both hands against the wall. The water was just short of scalding. When Hermione stepped in, there were tears in his eyes, streaming down his cheeks with the water. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and let the water fall on their embracing bodies.

The low patter of the water falling and hitting their skin was comforting.

"I love you so much." He broke the silence, his voice hoarse and wrapped her in his arms tightly. "Don't leave me."

"I have to, Ral"

"I can do more, be better," he pleaded. "I'll step away for a while and it'll be just you and me."

"You are at your peak, Ral. It would only hurt your career." She murmured into his chest.

"I don't care."

"Yes you do, my love."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. Water ran down his face and dripped off his nose and lips. Hermione stood on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth before trailing kisses along his light stubble.

"You do love me don't you?"

"You know that I do."

"Say it," he demanded.

"I love you."

He kissed her desperately.

"No one will ever love you the way that I love you, never make you feel the way that I do," he said into her lips as if it would breathe life back into what was dying.

"I know."

"I love you." He tried to infuse her with those words and his apparent anguish. "I love you."

"I know you do, but you love the music more. You don't need me. I'm just here, waiting for you to grow tired of me or worse, having nothing ever change between the two of us. It is just too much to ask of me."

He rested his forehead against hers.

"We can get married and have babies. I know that's what you want."

"You hate kids."

"I'd love ours."

"You don't believe in marriage."

"I'd believe in ours."

"I have to go and get me a life back. I need my career back, my research, Ral."

"You are my life," he told her. "You are what makes everything else work."

"Your piano is your life. I'm just along for the ride."

"I can't live in a world where you are not with me and it's not possible for me to accept that you'll be in love with someone else, in someone else's arms. I just can't."

"Oh, Ral..."

Hermione felt that he would continue to live just fine. He would play his music and it would cushion him from the world. His older brother would always make sure that he had what he needed. Eventually, he would break someone else's heart. Maybe someone would get further than even she had.

And, Hermione knew too that she would forever carry him with what was left of her heart.

* * *

 

In her dreams, she saw him, Rabastan Lestrange, her _Ral_ , sitting naked at his piano, playing in the dark. She could hear his music, the music that he named after her. She would awaken only to smooth out the dark curls of the brown-eyed little boy that had snuck into her bed and curled up beside her and kiss his forehead, then sing him to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, this is just a random, rather cliché idea of a fanfic that I simply needed to let out. It's just a modification of a story I posted earlier in Literotica.
> 
> Posted on ffnet: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11287763/1/The-Pianist-of-the-Night
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading it :>


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